The Rescue
It’s another night in Elkton, Michigan. Winter is setting in; meaning it’s not safe to go outside if you’re not used to it. Lake effect means nothing until you’ve experienced it. The wind rushes off the dangerously cold water, penetrating every layer of clothing, reaching clear through to your bones and then gripping with arctic certainty.
Luckily, we’re inside, and it’s a comfortable, moderated sixty-eight degrees. Brian, my husky, well-fed best friend is on the worn loveseat across the room. He sits back lazily, one leg outstretched while the other hangs carelessly off the edge. I have to lean over occasionally to make sure he’s still awake. He is; he’s just not saying much. He never does. At six feet, two inches tall and weighing in on the other side of two fifty, he doesn’t need to say much. He’s not fat; he’s built like a linebacker and hits twice as hard.
I’m in an equally worn recliner that long since quit reclining. I’m nodding in and out of a Dukes of Hazzard marathon that was Brian’s idea; he picked up the entire series on DVD and wanted me to help him break it in. I watched the show as a kid, but as an adult nearing thirty, I’m watching two country boys tear up the country in an orange 69 Charger. What did I see in this?
Oh yeah; Daisy. And I love the General Lee.
Brian and I used to clown how my affection for the General Lee would be enough to revoke my token-black-guy status. If my love for muscle cars won’t do it, I often say, it’s my penchant for enunciating my words and undying love for all things Star Wars. That, and I say things like penchant.
There’s another side to me, though.
I’m a little surprised by the buzzing at my waist; reaching for my phone, I glance at the ID before flipping it open and answering. Kristy.
I don’t even get to say hi.
“Marcus!!” Her uncharacteristically panicked voice screamed over the earpiece. Instantly, Brian is sitting up. “Please! He’s never been like this…please come get me!”
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
Rage seeps in; I know that voice, approaching in the distance, over the phone.
“Kristy? Are you in Caseville?” I manage. Brian sits forward intently.
“YES!!” She screams. I feel relieved. I know exactly where she is. “MARCUS, PLEASE! Hurry!”
“Bitch! Who’re you on the phone with–”
Click.
Line goes dead.
Exhaling slowly, I lower the phone. It remains in my hand as an uncomfortable silence lingers between Brian and I. We connect on the fact that women and children are not to be abused. That connection makes our next exchange poignant and defining of our friendship.
“Let’s go get her.” He says.
“Yeah.” I nod, getting to my feet, putting my phone in my pocket. “Let’s.”
It’s a rehearsed routine we’ve never done before. In silence, we put on our coats and tie our shoes. He tosses me my fingerless gloves from across the room. I secure them tightly on my hands (I always likened putting on my gloves to someone taking the safety off of a gun) and tighten the nylon do-rag on my head.
We exit the house, heading to his old, beaten up, reliable F-150. It starts after a fashion, and we’re soon on the way to Caseville. Neither of us mention that it’s below thirty out here.
The ride to Caseville takes twenty minutes and is uneventful. The ride back will be anything but.
Chad’s—Kristy’s-soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend—house is a testament to architectural genius, a small castles among other homes. It looks like a looming monster in the dead of night, lightless and uninviting. It doesn’t stop us.
We park a block away and silently make our way to the house. I survey three stories from the exterior and note that there are no other cars in the driveway besides Chad’s. No resistance.
“Take the back.” I whisper to Brian as I approach the front door. Without responding, he vanishes into the darkness, off to the left. Resolved, I make my way to the front door as logic feebly tries to make it’s argument.
You don’t have a key…
Don’t need one…
Instincts have taken completely over as I step onto the porch and thrust my foot through the front door, which opens wildly, swinging into the house and threatening to close, stopped by my hand.
The house is illuminated, large, and vacant. Openings ahead of me at the stairs and from the rooms at both my left and right make me uneasy; too much to cover. “Kristy?” I call. Nothing.
Again, instinct takes over. I head to the right.
I enter a beautiful, full kitchen, complete with a bar. To the left, cowered in the corner, is Kristy. Her face is red from crying—she has a black eye, I’ll make him pay for that later—but otherwise, she’s fine. She cowers even further as I approach. Only when I speak does she seem to loosen up. “Kristy.” I say in my gentlest voice. “Come on. Let’s go.”
She whimpers, looking up to me. She quickly gets up; I grab her hand, and we’re heading for the front door–
Chad is entering the kitchen. Tall, skinny, clean-cut, the presence of privilege is replaced by abstract horror when he locks eyes with me. We’ve met before. I warned him what would happen—jokingly—if he hurt her.
A large, shiny butcher’s knife is in his right hand.
Rage takes over. What were you going to do?
Time slows. I push Kristy behind me as he brings his hand up. I step inside of him, pressing my back to his stomach as both of my hands clasp his wrist. For a moment, he struggles, but a sharp, downward motion on the wrist sends the knife clattering to the ground. With everything I have (which is a lot) I turn around and drive my fist squarely into his jaw. The force is enough to rip his arm free of my grasp.
Oh, don’t go to bed yet.
I pursue. He resists, but it makes no difference; his money has gotten him out of everything, and I dismantle people for a living. He doesn’t have a chance. Foot in his stomach, his groin. My fist under his chin, my elbow at the back of his spine. Hold him like a sack of potatoes, teach him how to fly.
He can barely move. He hurt her.
Kick, delivered sharply to his ribs. He moans. He struggles. Again, a kick. He moans, but lacks the strength to struggle. Another kick. And another. I can’t hear anything else, feel anything else…I’m dizzy. Another kick.
“Marcus.”
Brian stops me from doing something very bad.
Reality sets back in. Chad’s breathing. Otherwise, he’s not moving. For a moment, I consider finishing the job…no.
Like three thieves in the night, Kristy, Brian, and I race from the home and back to the truck. We push Kristy into the backseat and Brian does an excellent job of getting us the hell out of there legally.
The ride is silent for three minutes when time slows again.
At first, it’s just tell-tale, ominous, red-and-blue flashing lights in the rear view mirror.
Then the wailing siren, and the car pulls up directly behind us.
“Tags up to date?” I ask Brian.
“Yup.” He says, keeping his eye on the rearview.
“Got your license?”
“Yup.” He’s already reaching for his seat belt. I look back to Kristy. “You better buckle up.”
As soon as her belt ‘clicks’, Jeff brings the F-150 to angry life, flooring the gas pedal. The cop clearly isn’t ready for it and quickly recedes in the rear view.
If I look at the speedometer, I’m freaked, and yet I do it anyway. Holy shit, he’s pushing ninety.
Brian doesn’t blink; he keeps his eyes on the road, both hands on the wheel. If he’s afraid, we can’t tell. The needle dances past the hundred mark and the cop is starting to close the distance.
“Hold on.” Brian says. He’s not afraid.
I leave my dinner behind as he slams the breaks and twists the truck into a tight right, pulling us off the road and into…a field?! You gotta be kidding me.
He kills the lights and tests the suspension, bringing the truck down to about eighty as he barrels into the tall field. About a quarter mile in, he stops, kills the engine, and turns around. Either he has ice in his veins, or he’s done this before.
Sure enough, deputy do-right blows right past the field, continuing on his way.
Kristy surprises me by suddenly lunging forward and embracing me tight enough to make breathing a challenge. She’s shaking and crying; I can’t tell if it’s from happiness or fear until she speaks. “Thank you.” She whispers. “Thank you.”
I look to Brian, who simply nods. I shake his hand, and let the new memories form. Tomorrow we will have something to answer for, but tonight, she’s okay, and that’s what matters.
(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC
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